When the Queen walks by, everything stops.

Because this is not some simple-minded media prop that smells like cotton candy and exists so that shady people can operate behind a lovely face with a high approval rating.

This is the Queen.

Her armor is dark, form fitting, there is a gun at her hip and a dagger on each leg. Her hair is fire, a deep orange drawn back into a tight French braid that falls between her shoulders. She does not blow kisses and wave, but she’ll occasionally throw a lopsided smile in someone’s direction, and that person will flush, and grin as if they just won the lottery.

At her side, a woman to rival her harsh, war-bound beauty, a completely opposite soft kind of pretty.

Her hair is so blond it is almost white, and it falls in curls around her face, framing her long lashes and huge eyes, the same bright blue as the sky and the cropped cardigan she wears.

The Queen’s arm is thrown around her shoulder in a casually possessive sort of way, and when the woman smiles at her, something in the Queen’s sharp gaze melts.

They are out of the public eye in no time, slipping behind the iron wrought gates of the two story townhouse the queen lives in - a strange place for a leader of such importance to reside, but it is comedic to imagine this woman inside a palace.

The streets take a good ten minutes to settle down. The people love their Queen, and during a time of war, that is an unusual phenomenon indeed.

The citizens of Firinia love their Queen, but I am not a citizen of this vast eastern country, and my feelings for her couldn’t be father from love.

I slip between the bars of the fence - because I can be a shadow if I want to, and magic couldn’t be further from dead.

The Queen and her lover are on the back porch, two tangled into one, mouth against mouth. They kiss passionately, barely stopping to breathe.

They pause for a moment, exchanging lovesick grins.

“I am so lucky to have you,” the Queen whispers raggedly.

“I’m the luckiest person in the world,” her lover echoes the sentiment.

The queen disentangles herself.

“Hang on,” she says, “I’m going to grab us drinks.”

My opportunity.

I am beside her almost instantly. She looks like she is going to scream, so I assure her that I am safe, that I just want to talk, only for a second. I lie, and it works because I can be persuasive if I want to be. Because magic is anything but dead.

“I need you to help me kill the Queen,” I tell her, and all my work is undone. Her face grows pale and her eyes widen, and she turns toward the house -

But I understand psychology far better than most, and I know that even the “luckiest person in the world” will give it all up if the price is high enough.

I tell her I can make her rich, beyond her wildest dreams, and when that fails to work I switch to threats. I tell her that I will kill the Queen either way, it is up to her if she needs to die as well. I tell her I know her family, that I can grant them immunity from the siege that is imminent.

I lie, and it works.

She looks nauseous, there are tears in her eyes, but she nods her head and that is enough.

There is some rich, beautiful story behind the love that the Queen has for this woman, something equal parts heartache and glorious, vivid ecstasy, beautiful fall mornings and dark, passionate nights.

But I do not know it, and, I think as I press the vial into the hand of this woman before me, I don’t really care how it goes.

All I know is that the next drink the Queen has will be her last one, and that is enough for me.